


Explain The Infinite

by Countryole



Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: Eclaris, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Countryole/pseuds/Countryole
Summary: "It terrifies him to think that in almost no time at all he will be a father, that they will be parents." Love is infinite, and all encompassing. Lorna and Marcos find out just how true that really is.





	Explain The Infinite

Marcos is exhausted. 

The past week has been nothing but transport runs with John, ferrying refugee mutants to different stations outside of Georgia. They are taking them to safety, away from the heat of Sentinel Services and their relentless pressure to find the Mutant Underground in Atlanta. They were once a safe haven, a place of sanctuary, but with stations throughout the state failing, falling to Sentinel Service raids, it’s only a matter of time before they have to face the inevitable and fight back.

So for days on end Marcos has loaded broken families into tractor trailers to be smuggled across state lines, comforted crying children in the shadows of crawl spaces, all the while praying--desperately--that their effort is not in vain, that their lives will be saved.

He trudges up the HQ stairs to his and Lorna's bedroom, running a hand over his face, his weeks-unshaven beard scragglier than usual, dark circles permanently imprinted under his eyes. He hasn't slept enough, and when he can sleep he hasn't been able to. There's too much at stake, too much that could happen, for his mind to allow him the luxury of fitful rest. When he does manage to close his eyes the nightmares are there to greet him—monsters everywhere, rearing their ugly heads.

He slips quietly as he can through their bedroom door, his shadow stretching across the room, dancing along the far wall with the lamplight that glows from their bedside table. Lorna leaves it on for him until he comes back. Above their bed the art he'd made for her greets him, a metallic aurora, vibrant and bright. She's curled up on the bed below it, burrowed into the pillows on his side, peacefully asleep for the first time in months. Marcos sighs, thankful for small mercies.

He strips out of his clothes in the bathroom, quietly washes his face, forever being watched by the man in the mirror across from him. Marcos balances his hands on the unsteady sink, staring back at his reflection. He looks older, or at least he thinks he does, as if the last seven months have aged him faster than they should have. He contemplates shaving, wondering if it will make him look less tired, less wild. He decides against it, like he often does, choosing to save what little energy he has for anything but himself.

"Hey, I tried to wait up for you."

Marcos turns, finding Lorna propped against the door frame. Her green hair is mussed and messy as she stretches her arms and smiles, green eyes sleepy and warm. The t-shirt of his that she's wearing is doing very little to hide the visible rise of her stomach. At almost thirty weeks, it's obvious now that she's pregnant, though still small by most standards according to Caitlin. Marcos has done nothing but marvel at the way her body has changed, and even now he can't help but stare at her openly, forever enchanted by the most beautiful thing in the world.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," he reaches for her hand, and she comes to him, happy to oblige.

"I'm glad I did," Lorna yawns, stepping into his arms and resting her head against his chest. She hums in contentment when he tangles one hand in her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "I missed you."

When they were first together, being separated for days or weeks at a time was the norm, but the closer they've gotten to the baby arriving, the harder it's gotten to withstand any sort of physical distance. Lorna's been put on the equivalent of house arrest, something they all agreed to for her safety, as well as the safety of everyone else. It kills her not to go with him when he leaves, forced to stay behind, being on the sidelines of the action synonymous with her version of hell. There's also the ever looming worry that every time Marcos leaves HQ for a supply run, for a refugee transfer, for medical supplies, there's a chance he might not come back. 

"Were you sick today?" He asks. Her eyes drop, and her lips twist down in a frown.

"A little," she admits, "mostly just dizzy. Cait checked on me all day though."

"You're sure everything's fine?" Marcos' brow knits in worry, and Lorna reaches up to touch his face, trying to reassure him. She’s struggled more in these later months than she did in the early parts of her pregnancy, much to Marcos’ and Caitlin’s dismay.

"Everything's fine.”

Lorna's conviction lacks it's usual surety, her words laced with worry instead. Uncertainty is uncharacteristic of the fearless, frightful woman known as Polaris throughout the Mutant Underground. It's a sign weakness, and weakness is something Lorna hates. Admitting to it is something she hates even more.

"Let's go to bed," Marcos worries his thumb against her neck, "we can sleep in tomorrow, for once."

"You might—“ Lorna laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his mouth “—your kid? Probably not."

"Not even born and already a trouble maker? Sounds suspiciously like her mother."

Without warning, but with great care, Marcos reaches down and lifts Lorna off her feet. A shrill, surprised noises squeaks past her lips as she clings tighter to his neck, and it turns into another laugh, warm against his ear as she tucks herself against him. He delivers her to their bed, gently laying her down before crawling in beside her. They assume their regular position of tangled legs and arms, Lorna as close as possible, her head resting against his chest, her hand over his heart.

Between them, without warning, the colorful lights of an aurora start to glow and spin and twist. The more time that passes, the closer they get to the end of the pregnancy, the more frequently they appear. Lorna beams at Marcos through the darkness, and the unborn child moves in answer between them, butterfly kicks he can feel against his own ribs where Lorna is pressed close.

"I forgot to tell you," Lorna yawns, closing her eyes and nestling closer, "but Caitlin said she has a surprise for us tomorrow."

"A surprise?" Marcos murmurs, sleep threatening him, "You always used to tell me you hated surprises."

"I did, but that was before."

"Before what?"

"I found you."

 

—

Marcos wakes up to sunlight streaming through the beaded curtains of their bedroom window, and an empty space where Lorna should have been.

His first reaction is to panic, immediately shocked out of the heady haze of sleep. He rolls over in bed, swinging his feet onto the floor, and that's when he sees the note on the bedside table next to his burner phone. With a little more composure he grabs it, bringing it close to read.

_Down in the garden with Sonia. Love you. xo_

Marcos sighs, falling back into the bed, his feet still planted firmly on the ground, the note crumpled in one hand. He gives his heart a moment to regulate the breakneck pace at which it's currently racing, using his other hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Once his pulse is no longer galloping inside his head, he sits up again, and slowly makes his way to the shower before getting dressed and resolving to return to the real world below.

He passes familiar faces on the way down. Shatter and a few new recruits are carrying more cots up the stairs, and Zingo trots by on the ground level without a passing glance, on a mission in the direction of the kitchen for breakfast scraps. Marcos heads to the back of their destitute building, to the small garden Sonia managed to create on the large stone steps leading to the courtyard, long ruined by whatever devastation once touched this place.

When he steps outside, the spring weather greets him, crisp and cool. He immediately spots the two women among the wooden crates scattered along the steps. Sonia is pruning overgrown green vegetation, and Lorna follows behind her, her own set of gardening clippers floating in the air above her, spinning around in lazy figure eights without achieving much of their intended purpose. He can vaguely hear them chattering as they move, accompanied by the occasional sound of laughter. 

He tries to think of the number of times he’s seen Lorna like this, relatively free of worry, genuinely happy, smiling in earnest as if their world weren’t on the verge of falling apart around them. He takes a seat on the broken steps, content to watch her until she spots him. It never takes long for her to find him when he’s close by. She jokes that she has a special sixth sense reserved just for him, but it’s true, and seconds later she turns in his direction. Their eyes meet from across the garden, and her face lights up when she smiles at  
him.

She grabs Sonia’s arm, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, but she's still looking at him, grinning. Marcos watches with narrowed eyes and mock suspicion, but he grins too, chin is his hands, his face bright with boyish mirth as she starts to make her way toward him. 

“Buenos dias,” Marcos watches the way the sunlight hits her hair just so, the dimples of her face when she grins at him, “you look beautiful.”

“Good morning,” Lorna stops on a lower step in front of him, running her hand though his messy hair he did not take the time to comb, smoothing it back out with a shake of her head, “I see I’m not the only one who forgot to brush my hair this morning, sleep good, huh?”

The question is posed in jest, but he can't bring himself to answer. Despite the fact that they both know a lie of omission is still a lie, it’s easier than admitting that neither of them ever sleep very well these days. She doesn’t press him, but her eyes are sad again. Marcos grabs her wrists, pulling her closer, and she leans forward to kiss him. This kiss is longer than it needs to be, soft, yearning, and Lorna has to force herself to pull away.

“Sit with me?”

Lorna shakes her head, and a new full-fledged smile breaks at the corners of her mouth.

“No, I need you to get up and come with me.”

Marcos tilts his head, curious, releasing her from his hold. She waves him up insistently, and with some effort he clambers back to his feet, wincing at the process. Lorna can’t help but chuckle, watching him with mild amusement. She refrains from making any jokes about him getting old, or saying "now you know how I feel", an unusual mercy for her to grant him. The lack of torment on her part gives way to real suspicion on his. Once he’s up, she grabs his hand, lacing her ringed fingers through his. 

“Caitlin’s surprise is ready,” Lorna explains as she pulls him back up the steps to go inside. Marcos follows obediently, having completely forgotten. Lorna’s excitement is palpable, her expression openly cheery, a rarity for the fellow mutants they pass in the hall that are mainly familiar with her scowl.

“Do you know what it is?”

Lorna grins at his question.

“I might have found out,” after the admission, Lorna makes sure to add emphasis absolving her of any crimes, “but by accident.”

“Aha. I’m sure it was an accident,” Marcos raises an eyebrow, “and I’m sure that you didn’t accidentally go out of your way at all to accidentally find out.”

Lorna tugs his hand in retaliation at his less than subtle insinuation of her guilt, her scowl making a brief appearance, but her eyes remain bright with exuberance. Marcos quickly realizes that they’re headed in the direction of their makeshift delivery room, the place where Caitlin spends most of her time these days pouring over human variant medical journals and textbooks, in preparation for the midwife she’ll have to be in the weeks to come. 

Marcos almost blanches at the thought. It terrifies him to think that in almost no time at all he will be a father, that they will be parents.

He steals a sideways glance at Lorna, and the flare of fear abates in her presence, the wayward, doubtful thoughts assuaged by the feel of her hand wrapped in his. He has nothing but adoration for her, and it swells in his chest, makes his throat tight with emotion. Lorna has been fearless throughout all of this, despite being sick the majority of the pregnancy, despite the doubts and the uncertainties they’ve both battled. It doesn't surprise him though, because Lorna has always been that way—resolute and determined, fierce in ways he's never been able to be himself.

Marcos is certain he cannot love her more, but Lorna never fails to find new ways to prove him wrong.

“Well? What is it?”

Marcos’ question hangs in the air between them as they come to a stop at Caitlin’s closed door. Lorna pauses before opening it, quickly leaning over to kiss his cheek. She gives a slight flick of her wrist, the door swinging back, green currents of energy twisting in and out between her fingertips.

“Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

 

—

Lorna watches Marcos intently as they enter the room, more eager to see the look of surprise on his face than she is the actual surprise they’re here for. Weeks ago he and John had worked endlessly to restore this room on the lower level to functioning order, reworking the plumbing for running water, rewiring the electric and fixing the floor and walls. 

He hasn't seen it sense their part of the project was finished, and now he stands beside her, marveling at the transformation. It's a miniature hospital room, complete with the proper medical storage Caitlin has needed for months, cabinets full of supplies they've collected, a proper exam table, a hospital bed. The collection of items are used and worn, sent from different sympathizers all over the state, but they feel new given how long they've desperately needed a set up like this for the underground.

The best part is that it has Cait's touch, and instead of feeling cold and sterile, the room is warm and welcoming. The windows face west, where they'll let the evening light in, and artwork from Cait's school kids already decorate the wall above a small desk in the corner along with the shelf that houses her growing book collection on human variant medicine.

"What do you think?"

Cait appears from a small utility closet on the far side of the room, blonde hair tied back and eyes crinkled and bright. Esme appears behind her, carrying a small box of supplies. Cait has taken the telepath under her wing, training Esme to assist her in various tasks, studying under her as an apprentice of sorts. She nods in acknowledgement at Lorna and Marcos, blue eyes gentle and kind, a soft spoken hello passing between them as she steps around and goes to sort the contents of the box into the cabinets.

"I don't know what to say," Marcos' eyes roam over the room, part in wonder, part in relief, "it's wonderful, Caitlin. It’s perfect, thank you."

"You're welcome, but it wouldn't have happened without you and John," Cait grins, appraising the small medical paradise now at her disposal. Lorna has Marcos' hand captured in hers, holding it so tightly he has to wiggle his fingers to make her loosen her grip. She dips her head in apology, but her eagerness leaves no room for real remorse.

"Lorna's already figured out the surprise," Cait's tone is motherly and reprimanding, but she’s amused at Lorna’s childlike excitement, "I'm assuming you'd like to know what it is too. Esme, are we ready?"

"Ready," Esme replies, no longer putting away supplies. She's in the corner of the room, rolling something toward them, coming to a stop at the side of the exam table. It's covered by a sheet, almost waist high, and all three of the women are smiling suspiciously between one another. Caitlin waves Lorna over, patting the exam table for her to sit. Lorna pulls Marcos with her, trying to ignore the brief wave of dizziness that often accompanies her anytime she moves too quickly these days. Marcos' sense are so finally in tune with her, he doesn't miss the way she takes a deeper breath than normal, and he gives her his classic look of concern as he helps her take a seat. He knows better than to ask her out loud, knowing how much she hates when he frets in front of everyone, but she squeezes his hand to reassure him.

Esme removes the sheet from the mysterious object, and Marcos becomes very, very still.

"Is that a--" 

"An ultrasound machine," Cait finishes with glee, leaning against the unit and patting the top of the computer monitor proudly, "a Combison 310, to be exact. It's an early 90s model, but it works."

"Wait, so this means—this means—" Marcos can't even complete the sentence, words lost in light of the realization as it hits him.

"We get to see the baby," Lorna replies, "we get to see our baby."

Marcos laughs, the sound pure and good and perfect it's as if it lights up the room all over again. Lorna cherishes that sound more than anything, she lives for the look of pure bliss on his face in moments like this, and she does her very best to commit both sound and sight to memory. He pulls her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the back of it, the exhaustion from the past week erased from his face by overwhelming, unadulterated joy.

"But how did you manage to get it?" Marcos stares at the machine, floored, fingers reaching out to touch it in reverence, "This kind of equipment costs thousands of dollars, maybe more."

"I spent one of my rotations in nursing school under an OB/GYN that went private practice after the mutant laws went into affect, I reached out to her a few weeks ago and found out she's retiring this year," Cait uncurls the power chord and hands it to Esme. "I explained as much of our situation as I could, and she wanted to donate to the cause. We'll be able to use it for a lot here, but this," she smiles, gesturing at Lorna and Marcos, "this is why I really wanted it."

"But why?" Marcos wonders aloud, "Why would she do that?"

Following Marcos’ question the air becomes still and heavy. Cait looks to Esme, the two women exchanging forlorn glances. Lorna pulls Marcos' hand to her stomach, letting it rest there with her own, their baby just beneath their entwined fingers. Something simmers in the green of her eyes, a flash of anger Marcos knows all too well, and his brow knits in worry, though he forces himself to wait for an explanation.

He can feel the baby kick, a restless flutter. Could it be that their unborn child could already feel it’s mothers rage? Or understand it? His heart aches at the thought.

"Her son passed away during July 15th,” Lorna’s words are quiet, somber, spoken from between clenched teeth, “he was a mutant."

There is a moment of silence that swallows the room, and every reason, every injustice he's ever witnessed, every abuse he's been privy to his entire mutant life comes racing back to him in a heartbeat. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, all victims of this war they've been fighting against each other—blood on blood on blood. Marcos stands frozen beside Lorna, now clinging to her hand like an anchor. He thinks about the streets of Bogota where he spent his childhood, about the stories Lorna has told him of her own, and the scars they both carry as a result. He thinks about the lives he's taken to save his own, and to save Lorna. He thinks about the lives he would take to protect his own child.

Would it ever stop?

Would he ever be able to keep them safe?

Caitlin’s hand finds his shoulder, pulling him out of the darkness of his thoughts.

“For what it’s worth, we are going to make this world better,” Cait rolls the ultrasound closer, “but we can’t do it by living in the past, we have to do it by living for the future. Now, let's look at this kid."

 

—

Marcos sits on the end of the exam table, next to Lorna’s feet where they dangle off the edge. She’s reclined against the headrest, attempting to wear her best poker face as she watches Cait walk Esme through the steps of prepping the machine. Her eyes are what give her away, a mixture of worry clouding them, dampening the animated excitement that had been there before. He knows she struggles in these moments of vulnerability, in giving parts of herself to other people, a fine tuned fear of the uncontrollable and unknown.

But Marcos can see what Lorna can’t. It’s during these moments that she is bravest, and that is when he loves her most.

“Ready?” Cait asks over her shoulder, one handing holding the part of the machine she had called the transducer, the other making adjustments on the monitor.

“Here,” Esme hands a nondescript squeeze bottle to Marcos, before glancing at Lorna with a small grin, “that’s the ultrasound gel, you’ll want to make sure you cover you entire stomach pretty well. I figure Marcos can do the honors. It’s kinda cold, just so you know.”

The telepath turns away, busies herself consulting Cait on the preliminary ultrasound readings in attempts to give them what little privacy she can. Marcos looks up at Lorna, and she nods in permission, carefully pulling up the hem of her sweater above her round belly. This part, the baring herself to the world, having to share something that has been so private, is difficult. She does it with as much grace as Lorna Dane can possibly muster, a feet in itself. Pregnancy and all it’s handicaps have not suited her; being fawned over and treated as fragile have only served to make her more irritable, much to the dismay of those in the underground who were unfortunate enough to cross her on a bad day.

“What if something’s wrong?” Lorna looks at Marcos, suddenly anxious, hugging her arms closer.

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Marcos muses aloud, carefully coating Lorna’s pale skin with the clear gel, and she scrunches her nose at the chill of it, “at worse she’ll come out kicking and screaming, looking for a fight, just like her mother.”

Lorna jerks her knee into Marcos back, and his smile turns into a grimace.

“I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Fine, I was mostly kidding.”

Lorna’s eyes are narrowed in faux exasperation, but it’s short lived. She reaches for Marcos’ hand after he hands the gel back to Esme, the worry on her face returning. He laces his fingers through hers, and Cait turns to face them, transducer wand in hand.

“Ready?”

Lorna’s grip on his hand tightens, and she nods.

Cait steps forward, and with great care she places the flat surface of the transducer to Lorna’s skin. She runs it gently over the slope of Lorna’s stomach, lips pressed in a thin line of concentration, moving with calculated precision. All eyes are on the ultrasound monitor, unmoving. The room is completely silent except for the gentle whirring of the machine, and the next few seconds feel like hours, until Marcos sees it.

The screen, once a blank void, materializes first into an unrecognizable, grainy black and white landscape. Then the flat image starts to take shape, coming into focus, so clear, so real, Marcos feels like he could reach out and touch it. He’s frozen, as is Lorna, their eyes locked on the little curled fists and tiny feet that materialize, the outline of a nose, a face, a mouth that yawns. The tiny owner is already bored with entertaining them, kicks out with both feet, visibly announcing disinterest in the the gathered crowd.

Noise fills the room, a steady endless echo that beats in time with the flutter of movement on the screen.

“Is that—”

Marcos chokes up. He can feel tears at the edges of his eyes. He sways, dizzy with emotion, one hand clinging to Lorna, the other gripping the bed to keep himself upright.

“It’s her heart.”

_Her heart._

Marcos sucks in a breath, a gasp for air, and next to him Lorna’s laugh sounds more like a cry of relief as she covers her mouth.

Her heart.

Strong and beating, inexplicably real, undeniably alive.

“It’s a girl?” Lorna asks softly, her own cheeks already damp, her eyes failing to contain the tears.

“From what I can see, it’s definitely a girl,” Cait confirms, her grin the widest in the room. “Her heart rate is normal. Here and here,” she points at the screen, “these measurements around her head, how long she is, all normal. I’ll make sure we save stills of these shots, for us to study, but she’s perfect.”

“Aurora,” Marcos murmurs, still fiercely gripping the bed, his head spinning, the sound of his daughters heartbeat flooding the room, and his head, “her name is Aurora.”

“Aurora,” Esme repeats, her voice soft and musical in time with their daughter’s heartbeat. Esme is studying the ultrasound monitor as she speaks, and the image wavers, disappears and comes back, the baby’s miniature hands move as if in answer. Marcos turns to Lorna, and then Cait as she adjusts the transducer again. Once more the image flutters, disappearing and coming back into focus.

“Is that normal?” Lorna asks, “what the screen is doing?”

“Yes and no,” Cait replies, watching the monitor carefully.

“Wait,” Esme reaches out, touches Cait’s shoulder to still her, becoming very still herself. Cait glances at the telepath, eyebrow raised in question. Esme’s brow furrows, and she turns from the screen to Lorna and Marcos, her mouth open as if to speak, but the words are caught in her throat. Her blue eyes are filled with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

“I have to ask,” Esme touches Lorna’s shoulder, as if to ground her from whatever she just felt, “may I look at your thoughts?”

Marcos holds his breath at Esme’s request, and looks to Lorna to gauge her reaction. The infinite landscape of Lorna’s mind is unexplainable, impossible to imagine. She has spent her entire life trying to control it, and Marcos has watched her struggle, as well as succeed, at conquering the monsters she lives with. What Esme is asking is the most someone could ever ask of the woman lying on the bed beside her. No one else has ever actually seen the things Lorna sees, the demons she lives with, the fears that she carries, not even Marcos. She would never ask that of anyone. She would never want to subject them to the chaos of the daily war she fights inside her head.

Lorna and Esme exchange glances, something passing between the women that Marcos can’t explain. Lorna is torn, the corners of her lips turned down in trepidation. Closing her eyes in resignation, she nods.

“Ok.”

Esme bows her head, and takes a step closer to the bedside, her hand finding Lorna’s shoulder. Cait kneels down beside them, readjusting the transducer, eyes still on the flickering screen. Esme’s eyes shift and change, brilliant and blindingly blue as she stares into the unknown.

The screen darkens and reappears again, but Aurora’s heartbeat seems louder, stronger than before.

“It’s not _you_ ,” Esme shakes her head in wonder, peers intently at Lorna, and then at the rise of her stomach, and the child hidden inside, “I thought it was you.”

“What do you mean?” Marcos asks, confused at Esme’s vague explanation. The telepath is at a loss for words, and as she continues to stare, eyes distant. They begin to glisten, clearly overwhelmed by what she’s witnessing in the visions beyond the world they can see.

“It’s not you I _hear_ ,” Esme holds tight to Lorna’s shoulder, “it’s _her_.”

Marcos stares at Lorna, a new wave of emotion flooding his veins with warmth, constricting his chest. The feeling rises into his throat as a broken laugh, a cry of disbelief, somehow working it’s way into the open. Lorna is desperately trying to contain herself, but her composure is long broken, her expression indescribable.

“Esme,” Cait cautions, seeing that she’s struggling to remain composed, “are you ok?”

“She’s so clear, she’s so _loud_ , never in my life…” the bright light of Esme’s eyes fade, and she reels from the effort, steadying herself as she sways.

Lorna reaches for Esme’s wrist, and the gentle touch brings the telepath back to them. She is crying.

“What did you hear? What did she say?”

“She knows that you love her, and she already loves you. She loves you _so very much_.”

 

—

_She knows that you love her._

Marcos is sprawled across their bed, Lorna’s arm draped lazily across his chest, skin to skin. She is warm, perfectly curled into his side where she is meant to be, the swell of her stomach nestled between them. Every now and then Marcos can feel the baby kick, and his fingers stroke the skin of Lorna’s stomach to pacify her. He murmurs, soft whispers no one can hear, and she falls still again.

 _She knows_. The thought still sits at the forefront of his mind, fixated on the revelation they’d had in the delivery room. He’s struggled to contain the flood of emotions he’s had since then, as has Lorna, both of them crying and laughing and tangled in each other’s arms in private once they’d returned to their bed.

Lorna’s hand traces lazy circles across Marcos’ chest, her eyes closed. Marcos grabs it, curls her fingers up in his. He presses a kiss to her knuckles, and then the top of her head, breathing her in, wishing they could stay here forever just like this.

Their nights have often been spent in hushed conversation, fears of the future voiced to one another, forever wondering if bringing a child into this world was something they could do—wondering if they would fail as parents, if they could give their child everything it would need to thrive. Tonight they find solace in silence instead, for once not worried about the unknowns of parenting that lie ahead.

Despite their fears and their worries, despite the chaos and the danger of that they live and breathe, they have an unborn daughter who is already aware of the most important thing she’ll ever need to remember for the rest of her life.

That their love for her is infinite.

If that’s the only thing they get right, it will be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This turned into this monstrous, long thing, and I just hope y'all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. xo


End file.
